Friendship

It can be hard to be a single person in a family church. I am thinking specifically of a conversation I had with my mom a few years ago about how hard it was for me to make friends. I was trying to explain the difficulty, and I didn't think she was getting it, so I asked her, "Who did you generally make friends with when you were my age?" Her answer was simple and immediate: the people who had kids the same age as her kids. Thank you, Mom, for making my point.

This isn't a radical concept. People tend to make friends with those they have things in common with. When you are in a particular phase of life, most of your friends tend to be in that same phase.

So, that means the only people I can be friends with are other single people, right?

For a long time, it seemed that was mostly true. Relief Society presidents would only assign me visiting teaching companions who were also single ladies, and we mostly visit taught only single ladies. The young moms with children were only interested in being friends with people they could organize play dates with and trade babysitting. The older moms were busy with their teenagers, or they were empty nesters who didn't see anything interesting in a young woman who didn't have any experience trying to take care of an elderly parent or struggling with a wayward adult child. I am by no means criticizing people for wanting to find things in common with their friends—particularly the young mothers whose sanity often involves a support group of other women in similar situations. It takes more effort, and sometimes people just don't have room for that in their lives.

So it was true. Almost all my friends were other single people, who, believe it or not, live extremely busy lives in spite of not having husbands and children to care for—and who had just as hard a time as I did avoiding the "woe is me, I'm so lonely and single" conversation that is as fascinating and repugnant as binging on holiday treats.

Then something weird happened when I moved into my current ward. Not only did people stop treating me as if my identity depended solely on my marital status—I stopped thinking of myself that way as well. I'm sure in certain lists and meetings had by church leadership, I am lumped into that group of "single sisters" and mentioned as one who should be informed of events for Single Adults. I even go to those events quite often (side note: they are populated mostly by people who are decades older than me and who wonder what the heck I'm doing there). But they are not my source of community.

I had a couple tell me it was easier to be my friend than try to find married friends, because they had to like both of them, whereas it was easy to like just one of me. The Relief Society president assigned me to visit teach three sisters who were all married with three small children.

Therefore, today I am sincerely thankful for the wonderful people in my life who are willing to think outside the box enough to accept and be friendly towards someone whose life is foreign to their own. I am thankful for people who see that I am a person who can be interested in their chatter about their kids or their crafts or their ordeals trying to fit into their clothes. I am thankful for people who might notice that I never have a husband with me when I go places but who choose to see that I have a brain and a heart and can still contribute to a happy social situation. I hope I can always be that kind of friend as well.

Hot

(Hawt? That's how the bf spellz it--he says it means "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." I'm still a little confused, either because he's a lot more brilliant than me, or because he wants me to be confused. Either way, it always makes me laugh hysterically.)

When it's cold outside, I'll do a lot of things to keep warm. I won't talk about all of them, but I will talk about dancing.

I realized a while back that I do not have a natural talent for dance. The graceful genes passed me by, and most of the time I'm ok with that. Until I see myself dancing in a mirror (or, even worse, a video--ouch!). Then I want to hide in shame. Or take dance instruction.

I did social dance at BYU and wasn't bad. Then I did Irish dance my last semester. It's hard to tell how good I was, because I always had to dance the guy's part. Way to remind me of the time in high school when a friend called me Gargantua.

Tonight I went to a class called BodyJam. It's at my gym. It is not Zumba. And it was really fun. I told the instructors afterwards, and they were very flattering.

"Oh, this was your first time? Really? But you must have done dance before."

"Nope. I'm a runner. Not a dancer."

"But you looked so good!"

Aww, shucks.

I think one of the weaknesses of our culture is that it encourages us to lie to people while thinking we're telling the truth. I'm sure it never crossed their minds that they were stretching the truth in order to make me feel good, and I'm sure they are inherently honest ladies. Because, really, the most that can be said for me is that I didn't fall down.

But. I'm going back next week.

Failure

My boss, who is great, likes to remind me when I mess something up that mistakes are learning experiences. And he really believes it. It is very inspiring to me. I know a few other people who are like that as well, and I've been working hard to take a leaf out of their book.

It's been a challenge for someone as self-critical as myself, but it's really doing a lot to change me in good ways. When I can accept mistakes for what they are--experiences that help me grow--I am much less critical of myself and much more able to set aside my worries about my imperfections. It's hard to live a happy and productive life when you're preoccupied with everything that you could have or should have done better. You stress people out.

So, this weekend was an exercise in that area. I wrote previously that I was going to run a half marathon, and yesterday I did it.

I wasn't able to run the whole thing. I hurt my ankle somewhere around mile 8, and by mile 10 the pain was too much. I started walking, with a heavy limp. But I kept going. Until the end.

Initially I was really disappointed in myself. I had a goal to finish in under 2 hours, and I had trained to be able to do it. I felt like all my hard work was wasted.

On the positive side, though, I can look at my finish time and recognize that even though it wasn't what I wanted, I still finished in less time than it took me to run the first (and only other) half marathon I did. And in that one I never stopped to walk.

Accomplishment? I think yes.

Setbacks. Mistakes. They're learning experiences.

Now I just need to let my ankle rest up and heal for a few weeks, and I'll be at it again. No reason to be disappointed. Just a good reason to keep going strong.